


Patient

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Please hold still,' Akaashi requests for the seventh time in five minutes." Helping Bokuto wash his hair is always a lengthy process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aceromanoffs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aceromanoffs).



“Please hold still,” Akaashi requests for the seventh time in five minutes.

Bokuto does not hold still. He’s shifting from foot to foot, hunching his shoulders and cracking his knuckles, and occasionally -- and far more of an inconvenience -- shaking his head, like a dog trying to throw off water. Since Akaashi currently has his fingers buried in the sticky tangle of Bokuto’s hair as he works shampoo into the strands, this generally results in a hiss of pain from Bokuto and suds being flung in arcs around them to stick and cling to the shower walls.

Akaashi doesn’t protest, other than to offer his level request at a steadily increasing frequency. He knows Bokuto well enough by now to know that the other’s energy is a force of nature, and he knows better than to try to withstand those. This time he sees the movement coming, telegraphed in the dip of Bokuto’s shoulder and the slant of his chin, and manages to extricate his fingers from the remnants of the gel standing Bokuto’s hair on end as the other pivots on a heel to blink wide gold eyes down at Akaashi.

“I’m bored,” he announces, fingertips fluttering against Akaashi’s shoulder to sweep over the damp collecting at his collarbone. “I hate waiting.”

“I know,” Akaashi allows, maintaining his gaze at Bokuto’s face as the other’s touch sweeps sideways, comes down to curl into restless pressure at the inside angle of Akaashi’s elbow. “If you used less hair gel this wouldn’t take so long.” Akaashi frames his voice into calm, a statement of fact instead of judgment, offsets Bokuto’s hurt obedience before it can even form. Instead he gets a flash of a smile, a damp-heavy dip of eyelashes over that single-minded stare, and a head tipping forward, Bokuto crossing the few centimeters between them to press his nose against Akaashi’s cheekbone like some sort of inventive kiss.

“I need to use this much,” Bokuto says. Akaashi can feel his breath at the corner of his mouth, the warm wet of his exhale distinct from the steam of the shower around them. “It doesn’t look cool enough otherwise.”

Akaashi doesn’t sigh, doesn’t so much as roll his eyes. He turns instead, tilts his chin barely to the right with the minimal motion of pure efficiency so he can drag his lips across Bokuto’s. It’s a glancing kiss, almost too delicate to even earn the name, and it only lingers for an instant; then Bokuto purrs, a low rumble deep down in his chest, and leans in, the soap-bubble fragility of the contact giving way to the weight of his mouth wet and heavy on Akaashi’s. Akaashi doesn’t pull away, just shuts his eyes and holds steady while Bokuto leans into him and his blood turns as hot as the air around him.

They stay like that for a long while, time stretching out of importance while Bokuto’s teeth drag over Akaashi’s lower lip and Akaashi licks at the ticklish roof of the other’s mouth until Bokuto twitches and laughs himself out of focus. It’s Akaashi who draws back, then, leaning his weight back and out of range even when Bokuto hums a complaint and leans in for more.

“Later,” he says, reaches up to bury his fingers into the mess of Bokuto’s hair and use the tangle as a handhold to push him back. “After we’re clean.”

“Takes too long,” Bokuto sighs, but he’s smiling still, free of the shadows that indicate true unhappiness, and when Akaashi lets him go he tips in to settle his forehead at Akaashi’s shoulder, lands his undecided hands at Akaashi’s waist and tucks himself in as close as he can get to the other’s skin.

It’s harder to wash his hair like this, when the soap from Akaashi’s fingers is catching at the wet strands of his own hair and sticking to the edge of his jaw. It probably takes him longer, too, to work through the lengthy process of soaping and rinsing and soaping again until Bokuto’s hair is clean of anything but its own silver-black pattern, until the weight of the clean locks are spilling across Bokuto’s forehead and slide smooth through Akaashi’s fingers.

Akaashi doesn’t protest.


End file.
